Colors
by Cruelest Sea
Summary: The colors of friendship. One shots: Clear; Rose Colored Glasses; Red; Gold; Orange; White; Silver; Yellow; Pink; Indigo; Purple; Turquoise; Black; Blue; Green; Brown; Gray; Amber.
1. Red

_"'We be of one blood, thou and I,' Mowgli answered, '. . . my kill shall be thy kill if ever thou art hungry.'" - Rudyard Kipling_

_**Red**_

The first time he sees his partner's blood it's a papercut and Starsky babies it like a life-threatening wound, even wrapping up his finger. He teases him about it, but after all they're barely more than rookies and they've never been injured in the line of duty. Later he notices the single drop of blood on the paper tablet on their desk, and he tears off the page without a second thought. It lands crumpled in the trash and the incident is soon forgotten.

The second time he sees his best friend's blood it's running down the window in giant crimson letters that tear into his heart like a knife. It isn't Starsky's blood, of course, but for a few sickening moments all he can see is that red and imagine life without him. He still has nightmares about it a week after Starsky is home and safe.

The third time he sees Starsky's blood it's splashed across the pavement and covering the side of his car, the vibrant crimson running like macabre tears from the paint. But he doesn't notice it at the time because there's so much blood pouring out of Starsky, life leaking into the ground and he can't hold enough in to keep that life inside the suddenly frail body. The second day after they place Starsky on life support he drives through the car wash and watches through dry, fixed eyes as the water mingles with the blood, stripping the car clean as if nothing ever happened. But a few drops stay burned into the leather where his blood-stained jeans were as he drove home from the hospital that day.

The next time he sees his partner's blood it's a little stain on the leather seat beneath where he lifts his friend into the car to take him home. Starsky's still too weak to get himself in, and if he notices the stain he says nothing. They don't talk about the past and only tentatively about the future, almost as if they still haven't realized that the future is still there, that it wasn't ripped away and buried for one of them.

The last time he sees his partner's blood it's six months after the shooting and Starsky is finally back behind his desk, a little thinner, and still pale, but alive. He cuts his finger on the edge of the form and fusses over it like he's never been wounded in the line of duty, and like six months ago he didn't survive three bullets tearing through him and a heart jolted back to life. But this time Hutch doesn't tease him at all.


	2. Gold

_"Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. For nothing gold can stay." - Robert Frost_

**_Gold_**

The first time he sees the color of Hutch's hair he's sitting at his desk, feet propped up on a stack of papers. The man who enters is tall, ill at ease. But all Starsky notices is the halo of gold hair framing the pale face, and he grins despite himself at the image of an angel in a police station. It isn't until later on that he learns the angel is his new partner.

The second time he sees his partner's hair Hutch is crumpled in a filthy alleyway, eyes glowing bright and wild with a lack of recognition. For an instant blind rage slams down on him, hatred for whoever did this to his partner. He touches the bruised cheek, a strand of limp gold. Hutch groans and slumps forward, clinging to him as sobs and shivers rack his too-thin form. And Starsky doesn't let go.

The third time he sees that gold hair he's lying on the floor of a restaurant with a bullet in his shoulder, vision swimming in and out, pain rushing over him like a waterfall. He can't seem to remember what's happened and he's scared when a face looms over him, a soft and familiar voice speaks. The gold wavers in his eyes but it's comforting. Hutch is here and it's going to be okay.

The fourth time he sees that gold it's shimmering in his fading gaze, glowing in the darkness of the roof. Hutch is out there, risking his life to get the information to save Starsky from the poison slowly eating him alive. But he can't live if Hutch is dead, for that would be a crueler poison, a slower death. He steadies the gun on the other man's back and pulls the trigger.

The fifth time he sees the color of his partner's hair he's sliding down a hillside, begging under his breath between his calls for Hutch to be alive. He sees the hair first, matted with blood, streaked with dirt, but still gold in the color of the sun as he falls down beside the almost motionless form. It isn't until he takes Hutch's head between his hands that he realizes he's trembling.

The sixth time he sees those gold strands they're plastered against Hutch's forehead looking faded and as frail as his best friend's body. He's dying from the disease running though him but Starsky won't give up, won't let him go. He holds his hand until they make him leave, and then stands before the glass, begging him to hold on, just a little longer. When Hutch is finally strong enough to open his eyes again, to look at Starsky there's a faint reflection of gold in those blue eyes.

The next time he thinks of that gold he's lost somewhere within a world the color of his best friend's hair, oddly weak and alone. He hears garbled voices, frantic beeping in the background, feels a jolt as something runs through him. He realizes he's dying, and it doesn't hurt as badly as he thought it would. Somewhere within the gold he hears Hutch's heart pounding as if beating for both of them. The pulse is frantic, frightened. Hutch is somewhere close, trying to get to him. He can sense it. The jolt runs through his still heart as he feels Hutch burst in. And he answers.

The last time he sees Hutch's hair it's cut shorter, mustache shaved off taking years away from the lined face. There's a real smile there, one he hasn't seen in so long, an ear to ear grin like Hutch used to wear when they were so much younger. It's the day of his release from the hospital and Hutch supports him as he walks out into the parking lot. He takes a breath of air into his lungs, whole and healed, and is grateful for life. He turns to his best friend and sees the sun has caught the color of Hutch's hair, spinning it into the fine gold he remembers from so long ago, as if nothing has changed. Then Hutch turns to look at him, and the gold lingers in his smile.


	3. Orange

**_Orange_**

_"All species capable of grasping this fact manage better in the struggle for existence than those which rely upon their own strength alone: the wolf, which hunts in a pack, has a greater chance of survival than the lion, which hunts alone." - Christian Lous Lange_

He doesn't remember how long he's been lying here, face turned up into the furnace of the sun, pinned like a beetle on a card. His throat is parched dry, too dry to call out even if he still had the strength.

It's a strange feeling to die slowly, inches by inches sapping away life like a tide ebbing from a beach. He always thought death would come quickly, leaping at him in some dark alley. An instant, and it would be over.

His eyes lift to the sun, the fiery orange ball that sears his eyes with unbidden tears. His thoughts drift to his partner and he digs into life with all his strength.

He can't let Starsky find him dead, can't let his best friend go through life thinking that it was his fault, that he was too slow, that another moment and he could have saved him. And most of all he can't let Starsky go out on the job with another partner, someone who doesn't know him, who won't watch his back as Hutch can, and who doesn't care enough to keep him alive even if that means losing his own life.

He hopes Starsky knows that he won't die easily, why he fights. Friendship isn't expressed in words but rather in actions. He'd die for him in a heartbeat or hang onto life by his fingertips no matter how badly it hurt just so Starsky wouldn't have to be alone.

He forces his mind to focus, makes his burning eyes stare into the sun to keep from giving up, from thinking about the pain that's spread from his leg clear down to his head.

He runs through memories in his mind, glimpses of blue sneakers on their desk, Starsky driving the car too fast around a curve, Starsky hauling him to some greasy spoon diner and telling him it's the best food in the world.

He imagines he can hear his voice, and the faintest of smiles parts his cracked and bleeding lips.

And then there's a thud as someone lands beside him.

He can't see who it is at first, the orange film over his eyes blurring the features. But the hands that gently take his face and lift him upward, tilting the sun out of his eyes, are as familiar to him as his own.

It's Starsky's hands, Starsky's voice. He can't make out the words but he knows the waiting is over. He made it. Starsky is trembling slightly, adrenaline caving in under relief.

He won't say how much it hurt to hold on, how easy it would have been to let go and die. And after a while he'll forget the pain and only remember why he didn't give up.


	4. White

_"I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope." - Aeschylus_

_**White**_

He couldn't remember when he started hating white, but he knew why. It was empty, a nothingness, every color scraped off. It reminded him of bones, polished by the sun, withering in the desert sand.

For a long time he could see nothing but white, swimming sluggishly through it like wading into quicksand. He couldn't remember where he was, anything that had happened. Only that something was terribly wrong, and something..someone was missing.

Hutch. The name whispered through his memory and he clutched at it, a log to cling to and keep himself afloat. Hutch was missing. He should be here, helping him. He's so very tired, so weak. His chest aches like he'd been run down by a car.

He tries to concentrate and remember what happened, but can't. His faint hearing shifts to the sounds of his world, the endless white shroud that holds him in place.

There's a voice somewhere in the distance, muffled words ringing through the white like the beam of a lighthouse through the fog. He struggles to swim toward the voice, something he recognizes as an anchor in times past. It's Hutch, calling him back.

He tries to open his mouth, to respond to the voice he's never ignored before, but only his nose twitches.

More mumbled words, growing louder. The voice hasn't noticed his attempts to answer.

Through superhuman effort his eyes finally crack open, blinking in the harsh light of the hospital room. For an instant all he can see is white and he's scared, scared that he's still lost in another layer of dreams.

"Starsky?" It's a tentative voice, layered with worry, fringed with uncertain hope. He uses up his strength shifting his gaze toward the sound.

And then blue eyes, brimming with relief, with utter joy, fill his view and finally block out the last trase of white.


	5. Silver

_"The badge of the violent is his weapon, spear, sword or rifle. God is the shield of the non-violent." - Gandhi_

**_Silver_**

The first time he sees that silver badge he's four and lost at the zoo. He's scared and alone when a booming voice above him asks where his mommy and daddy are. He tries to see the man's face, but he's too big. Instead the sun catches on the badge, reflecting it into the child's face, the sparkles distracting him from his fear. Later the man lets him play with the badge, and he pins it on his chest and pretends he's a policeman, too.

The next time he sees the badge it's his own, folded up within leather like a wallet in his pocket, something that gives him more power than the average man, but more chances to be killed as well. There's another man sitting at the desk already, feet casually propped up on the edge. He sits across from him, and works quietly, only answering when spoken to. The other doesn't give up, though, trying to draw him out despite the short replies. It's the end of the day before Hutch learns that his new partner and the man at the desk are one and the same.

The third time he sees his badge it's their second day and he starting to wonder if he's made a mistake. It's the second homicide so far today, and he feels sick to the core, useless at attempting to patch up every rip and tear in the world. He turns to his new partner but Starsky is down the alley, digging through a dumpster like he's finding buried treasure. He hears the cry a moment later, and Starskys standing there, a tiny, living baby cradled in his hands, a child somebody threw away and no one knows how he even heard over the racket of the city. Starsky hands the wailing child to him and runs to the car to call for help. He's still holding his badge in one hand as he shifts the baby to his other arm. The infant's eyes catch the flash of silver, stare at it with a transfixed sense of awe. He runs a finger gently against the soft cheek. Later he bets Starsky that someday they'll have another cop on the force.

The next time he sees his badge he takes it out in the hospital waiting room and rubs his thumb over the worn surface. He wonders if a little piece of silver is worth a drop of Starsky's blood, worth the fact that his partner is lying on the operating table with three bullets in his chest and lungs that won't breathe for him anymore. He digs his hand hard into the metal as if he can crush it into dust and let it blow away along with everything else that's happened today.

The last time he sees his badge it's a retirement party for not one, but two cops. He sees Starsky laughing, breathing, and even so many years after the shooting he still feels an overwhelming sense of gratitude for miracles. They'd beaten the odds more than anyone should, come out alive, and whole. He thinks about that day at the zoo so many decades ago, thinks about the big man with the badge. Starsky's already put away his badge, but his is still in his pocket. Later he'll put it away in a safe place, even forget what it looks like as years slip by. But he won't forget all it represented..or how very much it weighed.


	6. Yellow

_"You wonder how I recognize you? Some people - just a handful, mind you - give off the tiniest color. It's faint. Like a haze. It's the only thing I ever see in the darkness. Papa has it, too. Do you wonder what your color is?" - Ivy, The Village_

_**Yellow**_

He once read that every person can be represented by a color. Not skin or hair color or anything like that, but something deeper. A color that represents their spirit, their personality, a color that glows from their eyes and peeks from beneath every word no matter how softly spoken.

If it's true Starsky's color would be yellow.

Since the day he met him his partner has radiated sunshine, life fairly pouring out of his smile, his eyes, his constant energetic motion.

Starsky can make him smile when he'd rather cry, keep him going when he's almost dead. He pulls life from him, like Superman drawing strength out of the sun.

Sometimes he wonders if he clings to Starsky's strength too much, drains his friend when he should be lending his own strength.

But today Starsky needs him. It's the inquest into the death of the boy he shot and he can see his partner's face lined with agony. He's bleeding inside, all the sunlight used up.

He turns to look at Hutch, eyes lined from lack of sleep, seeking courage, a will to stand strong. He can't sit beside him, can't hold onto him and support him as he testifies. But he's chosen a sign for Starsky, something to show him he's in his corner.

A yellow tie, as bright as the warmth in his best friend's smile. He lifts the edge and waves it like a hand cheering for him.

The faintest smile lifts Starsky's lips. He sees. And he understands.


	7. Pink

_"Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality." - Emily Dickinson_

_**Pink**_

He never thought much about Valentine's Day until this year.

It's the first one since Terry died, the day Starsky might have been celebrating with her instead of sitting alone. They might even have been married by now.

Starsky doesn't talk about her much. There's a sadness in his eyes at times, a painful sorrow that tears at Hutch's heart. He didn't love her as Starsky did but he's cried for her, cried because Starsky had cried all his tears out, with him, the tears of one spilling over into the other.

Today of all days Starsky shouldn't be alone. He should be there to hold him up, to get him through the day.

He gathers up a board game and drives to Starsky's apartment, walking up to the front door and knocking their short, familiar seven raps.

Starsky's face is stoic when he answers the door, but Hutch can see the pink in the corners of his eyes where the blue has been burned with tears.

"I brought Monopoly." He holds out the game like a peace offering.

And so they sit and play, saying little, communicating so much through quiet glances, until morning comes and Valentine's Day is replaced by the 15th of February..an ordinary day.


	8. Indigo

_"Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?" - Henry David Thoreau_

**_Indigo_**

Starsky's eyes have never lied to him. They're as easy to read as a favorite childhood book, every word printed clearly for him to see.

The first time he sees those indigo eyes they're looking out of a stranger's face, a man whose name is the only thing he knows. He's heard he can tell a lot by a man's eyes, windows to the soul and all that. It's that first look, the open acceptance and warmth written within the indigo, that opens Hutch's heart.

The second time he sees Starsky's eyes they're inches from his own as he bends over the gurney that will carry Starsky up to Intensive Care. The poison has almost won, almost consumed every ounce of strength he had. Only his eyes are still alive, the indigo burning with unspoken words. Starsky puts all of their friendship into that second, packs fifty years of a future into a single look, a final goodbye. It's a look Hutch never forgets, one that creeps into his nightmares at night. And if he prays it's a plea to never see that look again.

The third time he sees Starsky's eyes they're filled with raw agony, boring into him, channeling strength, forcing love back at Hutch despite the bruise spreading across his face. He falls into them like an ocean, allows his full weight to sag into his best friend. And Starsky doesn't let him slip under.

The fourth time he sees Starsky's eyes he's fighting for every breath, struggling to hang onto life, dying. He's within inches of letting go, unable to bear the pain anymore. And then those eyes are looking at him from above a mask, pouring into his heart and siphoning out a little of the pain. Starsky shouldn't be in here, shouldn't be exposing himself further. But he's weak and he clings to him until he has enough strength to let go.

The next time he looks for the indigo the eyes are closed, shutting Hutch out. Starsky can't answer what Hutch needs to know, can't say whether he'll still be here tomorrow, whether or not me and thee will become..he cuts off the thought before it's given life and turns away. He can't look back because he's too afraid to see what's written in the indigo if his eyes should open.

The last time he looks into Starsky's eyes they're blinking at him from across the room, fluttering open and glittering in the unnatural light of a dozen various machines singing around him. For a single instant Hutch holds his breath, unable to believe, unwilling to hope. And then the eyes fly to him, lock with his like the intertwining of hands holding them together. And life is written in their depths.


	9. Purple

_"Two barrels of tears will not heal a bruise" - Chinese Proverb_

**_Purple_**

He's always hated purple. It's dark, like a stormy sea, the color of a fresh bruise.

The first time he started hating it he's stumbling down an alleyway, half out of his mind, the streaks of purple under his eyes all but blocking his vision. He finally folds up against a filthy wall, a stranger's hands reaching for him. He's scared and cold and lost when another pair of hands replaces the first. They're warm and gentle as they touch his bruises, get him to his feet and to shelter. When the purple starts to slip away he can see it's Starsky and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime he isn't afraid.

The second time he sees purple it's a bruise blossoming across Starsky's face where his fist connected with his best friend's skin. He's on his feet, looking at Hutch with a raw agony burning his eyes, a pain so intense it drives the purple right through his heart like a stake. There's arms around him and he's sobbing, leaning his full weight into Starsky and letting the world fall with him. And Starsky's shoulders are strong enough for both of them.

The next time he sees the color it's a faint bruise around Starsky's mouth, damage done by the ventilator that's forcing air into his shredded lungs. The purple has replaced the blue tinge that he'd seen when he first got to Starsky, and the soft whistle of the machine has taken over the horrible rattle of broken lungs. The purple reminds him of the only time he hit his best friend and on his way out of the hospital he slams a fist into the elevator wall in silent rage.

The last time he sees the purple it's a fading bruise across his knuckles as his hand trembles above Starsky. He's been awake an hour now and he still hasn't touched him, hasn't brushed his face as if it will become a dream and the features will be cold and stiff with death, not brushed with the first whisper of life and hope. Starsky's eyes drift open, too weak to do more than blink up at him. His bruised hand settles in the mop of curls, tangles itself into them until he finally believes it's real. And after that, the final tint of purple starts to fade.


	10. Turquoise

_"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost." - G. K. Chesterton_

**_Turquoise_**

His first partner had turquoise eyes, eyes as deep as Lake Superior, eyes that he'd sworn could penetrate his mind, anticipating every move, every thought before it occurred.

They'd been partners for three days before he ever saw their color, and then only because he made eye contact for the first time. Even then he'd been hard pressed to name their color. Blue was his first thought, but it seemed too ordinary, too commonplace for the fathomless pool of emotion lingering behind his eyes. He'd settled on turquoise, finally, a unique, ancient color hewn from stone as old as time. A color that suited his partner.

His first partner's eyes never ignored him after that. They were always watching, scanning ahead to protect him, locking with his to keep him strong. From the time he'd been dying from a poison running through his veins to the day he'd been lying on a restaurant floor, numbness spreading through his left arm, those turquoise eyes had been his anchor, a rock in the middle of a tempest. He felt safe looking at those eyes. Odd, but Hutch was the first person he'd ever met that he didn't care if he could read his mind, the first person he ever felt safe to spill his thoughts and emotions over onto. No, not the _first_ person. The _only_ one.

His first partner died almost a year ago. Oh, not that kind of death. There was no bullet, no knife, no funeral. He simply started to fade like leaves turning from summer to fall, fall to winter. And one day he was gone and his second partner was there, same body, same mind, same voice. But the eyes were different. They rarely looked at him anymore, and when they did they were silent. No warmth, no feelings. Even when he got angry they didn't flash with fire, scorching whatever criminal was in their way. It was as if the life had been stripped away and laid bare. He didn't mention it but it hurt that his second partner's eyes were the same shade of turquoise that his first partner had.

His second partner was a harder man, a man more prone to bursts of anger, a man who rarely smiled and even then it never reached his eyes. His hair was longer, and he grew a mustache that reminded Starsky of a mask, blocking him off from the world. There were times when he'd reach out and Hutch wouldn't reach back, times without responses to his questions, times when he saw sadness burned into the turquoise where laughter used to be.

It's after the shooting and he's lying in the hospital bed, still frail but healing. It's the first day that the doctors have finally come in smiling. It's the day he learns he's beaten the odds, he's strong enough that they know he's going to live, going to walk out of here someday and go back to his life, to the world out there. It's the day that Hutch comes bursting in, sheets of paper waving over his head, shouting at him through the glass window. It's the day that the turquoise starts to glow with life, that the emotions return, fill up those empty eyes like water pouring back into a sea.

Later he'll realize it's the day that his second partner starts to slide off like an old skin and another man steps into his place.

It's the day that his first partner comes back to life.


	11. Black

_"Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows." - unknown_

**_Black_**

The sky should have been black the day he died, clouds hanging thickly against a brooding sky.

Anything would have been better than the brilliant sunshine streaming from a crystal blue sky, the kind of day he would have been nagging Starsky to take a fishing trip up to the lake.

The kind of day they would have spent laughing, and joking, talking about girls and spinning tall tales.

It shouldn't have been the day that Starsky didn't show up for work, and when he got the call at lunch he _knew_, felt like a cold hand closing over his heart that Starsky was gone, slipped beyond his reach without a goodbye.

He drove slowly, as if to put off the inevitable, climbed out of the car like an eighty year old man and walked down the bank toward the river.

They'd dragged his partner out of the water, laid him on the bank, face tilted upward as if his frozen gaze could see the sky. There wasn't much blood, only a little around the bullet hole in his chest, straight through the heart and exiting the other side.

He couldn't touch him at first, couldn't make his fingers knuckle the cold skin, brush the tangled and sodden curls.

Out of respect the others moved back, allowing him to lift the limp body into his arms and carry him the endlessly long walk to the silent and waiting ambulance.

It should have been raining as he staggered under the weight of his burden, water sheeting out of the sky and soaking him, anything to cover the moisture that ran down his cheeks.

It took all his strength to pry his own fingers from the form cradled against him, to relinquish his best friend to the paramedics.

Their faces should have been hopeful not set in sorrow and sympathy. They should have started IVs, a hundred machines, and a wailing siren.

Instead they lifted a white sheet over his partner's face, leaving him with that final moment stamped into his mind like a brand. They told him quietly that he could go home, could make the arrangements later.

He went, without even responding.

He didn't take off his clothes when he got home, only went straight to the chair shoved against a wall and stared into empty space, as if an answer was written there, listening to the silence as if someone could tell him why he was alive and his partner was dead, why whoever had killed him was living and breathing while Starsky was lying lifeless and cold.

Later, he should have stood up at the funeral, should have told everyone what sort of man David Starsky was, should have found words to explain how empty the world was without him.

But he couldn't manage to speak.

There should have been others at the funeral, family, girlfriends, friends. Someone besides the Dobeys and Hutch.

It should have been Starsky's shoulder he touched instead of the wood of a coffin. It should have been Starsky at the wheel of the striped car instead of the man who'd been his partner, his best friend. Instead of the man who drove out of the cemetery like he didn't care whether someone hit and killed him on the way.

He drove home like he always did. But he didn't reach for his guitar, for a book, or for the telephone. He poured himself a drink, and then another, the liquid burning it's way down his throat.

Somehow it turns dark, and without changing he falls into bed, the alcohol dulling the pain enough to let him sleep, to make him dream.

In the morning he goes to work, sits down at their..at his...desk and starts filling out forms. Captain Dobey tries to send him home twice but he doesn't respond, and eventually the older man leaves him alone.

Each time the door opens he looks up, and once he even reaches for the telephone, dialing half a number before it all comes crashing back.

There should have been someone to come in the door, to tell him that's it only a cruel joke, only a bad dream, and it's over.

There should have been someone to tell him he isn't really alone, that he won't get a new partner, that everything will be okay.

He would have sold his soul even to hear that lie, to believe it for one minute.

There should have been.

But there never is.


	12. Blue

_"Perhaps our eyes need to be washed by our tears once in a while, so that we can see life with a clearer view again." - Alex Tan_

**_Blue_**

The first time he cries he's seven years old and another boy at school bloodied his nose. His mother looks up with unfocused eyes from the half-filled glass clenched in one hand and tells him to wipe his nose before he bleeds all over the new carpet. It's his father who notices the tears, and backhands him across the mouth for being weak. He's forgotten the bully's name, and the bruise is long faded but he's never forgotten the day he learned not to cry in front of anyone.

The second time he cries he's a rookie cop on the first day of the job and he sees a little girl that some psycho killed and dumped in a garbage can. He knuckles his eyes dry before a sob can escape but not before he notices that the man next to him, his new partner, has tears running down his face.

The third time he cries it's the day Gillian dies. He strikes out at first, hitting his best friend, hitting Starsky when he wants to hit himself. He waits to be struck back, but Starsky only grabs him and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. He lets himself sob, truly cry out all the pain. And Starsky lets him.

The fourth time tears well in his eyes he shoves them down, forces his eyes to stay dry and focused. He sits beside the bed, watching the mulititude of wires and machines that connect his partner to life by the frailest of threads. Starsky is dying, and he can't cry because he'll fall apart and no one will be there to put him back together. He has to stay strong, to get whoever did this. Later, much later, he can fall apart and no one will care because Starsky won't be there.

The last time he cries it's the day Starsky first speaks his name, two days after coming out of the coma, voice thin as a spider web, the sound like the most beautiful music in the world. Starsky is still weak but he reaches out anyway and touches Hutch's head gently. They don't speak, but they understand.


	13. Green

_"No one would choose a friendless existence on condition of having all the other things in the world." - Aristotle_

_**Green**_

He used to tease Hutch about the plants. They're everywhere, spread from room to room like an indoor jungle harboring goodness only knows how many spiders. But Hutch loves them. They can be out on a stakeout, late at night, and while Starsky's stomach is growling and all he can think of is dinner, Hutch is muttering about forgetting to water one of his plants. He's seen him water them before, talking to the little green things, touching a leaf here and there like a caress on a cheek. He doesn't see what Hutch likes in the spindly plants but he accepts it as a quirk in his partner's personality.

It's two weeks after Gillian's death and Hutch hasn't smiled once since that day. He hasn't touched his supper, over a half an hour since Starsky wolfed down his, only stands, back to him, fingers curled loosely around one of the plant's leaves. Starsky has no words, nothing to say to make it better. So he stands up too, takes the watering can, and joins him. And if in the middle of watering some tears start to fall on the plants, then Starsky can hold him and let him cry until the pain is finally gone.

There's so many things on his mind as he searches for Callendar and all he can think of is Hutch's plants. He isn't there to water them and they're wilting by now. Hutch will throw a fit if he gets out of the hospital and finds them dead. He knows deep in his heart that if he doesn't find the man soon Hutch will never know either way but he forces the thought aside. As soon as Hutch starts to recover he drives to his apartment and waters one end of the jungle to the next. In the end only one plant is lost, and he removes it before Hutch is released from the hospital. He notices it's absence almost instantly but says nothing, only turns such a sad look on Starsky that he wants to kick himself. He even goes out the next day and buys another to replace it. It's worth a few spiders to see a smile return to that pale, drawn face.

It's three months after the shooting and he's home from the hospital, propped up against pillows on Hutch's sofa when he notices the jungle doesn't seem as green, as full as it did before. There's empty pots here and there, and most of the green leaves are browned on the edges. He asks Hutch about it but he doesn't respond, only smiles faintly and shrugs it off. It's much later when he learns that Hutch stayed nights at the hospital, rarely going home to his apartment, and never remembering to water the plants. It gives him a numb feeling, a realization of just how close he came to death, what his death would have done to Hutch. From then on he never teases him about his jungle. Over time more plants come in to replace the dead ones but Starsky doesn't mention anything about spiders. And in his own way he even learns to like the plants, too.


	14. Brown

_"Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends." - William Butler Yeats_

**_Brown_**

The first time he sees that brown leather jacket is the day he meets the man who wears it. The hand that reaches out of the sleeve shakes his firmly, the face open and welcoming. His fingers brush the leather as he shakes his hand. From then on in his mind the jacket is as much a part of Starsky as his smile.

The next time he sees the jacket he's lying pinned beneath a car, shivering with the onset of infection into his shattered leg, fever chilling his body despite the baking heat of the sun. The arms holding him are gentle, a support as they wait for the sound of sirens above them. Starsky lets go of him long enough to wriggle out of the jacket and wrap it around Hutch. "Hang on, Hutch." His voice is strained. "Just hold on." The jacket is warm, and he stops shivering. His hand finds Starsky's and clutches it for strength. And he holds on.

The next time he sees it he's sitting in his apartment beside the telephone, waiting for the moment it will ring. It's three in the morning and he still hasn't slept. He can't sleep, as if drifting off, relaxing his watch for even a minute will allow Starsky to slip away, as if he can hold him to life by sheer willpower alone. The jacket is clenched in his hands, two pieces torn apart, the three holes lined across the severed halves in a grotesque stripe. They had to cut it off him to get to the wounds. His mouth curves in a weak shadow of a smile. Starsky would be yelling his head off if he knew it was torn in half. His knuckles are white around the leather, forcing the halves together. He sits that way all night. And he never lets the pieces separate.

The last time he sees the jacket it's hanging in a window of a clothing store, looking so much like his partner's his breath catches. He buys it without even questioning a price, wraps it in Christmas paper and takes it to Starsky's apartment. It's three months until Christmas but he hands it to him the instant he steps inside the door. He's learned that Christmas together isn't something he'll ever take for granted again...and he didn't want to wait that long anyway to see the look of pure delight in Starsky's eyes.


	15. Gray

_"What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies." - Aristotle_

_**Gray**_

Anniversaries are always the hardest.

He runs a finger over the photograph with an almost reverent touch. There's deep lines worn into the image, fading the black and white print into muted gray tones, much like his memories. Once crisp, now slipping away despite himself.

Worst of all he can't recall his partner in life, only as he saw him last, slumped lifeless on the ground, a scarlet pool outlining the still form. He knew he was dead before he reached him, knelt beside him and took an already cold hand in his own. The backup that finally came told him he sat that way for an hour before they arrived. He didn't remember it being more than a moment. All he could feel was a numb ache, as if he'd slipped into shock.

He touches the paper face gently, trying to remember the smile that had spread from his partner's lips clear up into his eyes, lighting him from within. He never could keep himself from smiling back.

He can't remember the exact shade of his best friend's eyes..were they lighter than he recalls? Darker? He should know, he looked into them over his shoulder often enough before they took down some door, stormed into a holdup. There was complete trust between their eyes, no doubt that one would let the other down. They were a team, like two halves of one coin, incomplete without the other.

He should remember his partner's mannerisms, little ticks and expressions so unique to him. But he can't. He can only recall the hole left in his heart, carved out by the same bullet that took his best friend's life.

He sets the photograph down with the greatest of care. It's another day, not just an anniversary of death. He has work ahead of him, papers to fill out, things to take up his time so he doesn't have to remember.

There's a knock at the door and he straightens his shoulders, clears his throat before speaking.

"Come in."

A blond head pokes in, followed by a lanky form. The man is young, ill at ease. He makes a slight cough before speaking, head slightly ducked.

"I-I'm to report to you for assignment of a partner, Captain."

A rookie, green as he once was, so many years before. In fact, the young man reminds him very much of himself. He'll need a good man to show him the ropes, a perfect fit like he and his partner once were. And he knows the right man.

"Right down the hall." He motions. "Ask for Starsky."

The blond gives a weak smile and leaves the office, tripping over a chair on his way out.

A faint smile crosses the older man's face. He reaches out once more and trases the face in the photograph.

"They'll work out, Elmo." He says quietly. "After all, we did."

Captain Dobey returns to his work with a lighter heart. For him it's an anniversary of a tragedy he'll never forget. But he knows somehow, that for two other people, it will be a different kind of anniversary someday.

The day that Hutch met Starsky.


	16. Amber

_"Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life." - George Bernard Shaw_

**_Amber_**

There are times when it tears his heart out to see those smiles, fragile shadows of the grin that used to light up Hutch's face.

The first time he sees that smile it's the day after Gillian's funeral and Hutch doesn't answer his phone. He drives to his apartment without waiting, heart pounding all the way to the door, hand trembling as he grabs the key above the frame and shoves it into the lock. All the curtains are pulled, the only light a single lamp in the corner but he can make out Hutch, slumped in a chair beside the refrigerator, a glass half-filled with amber liquid resting in one hand. He looks up, focuses on Starsky with difficulty, and smiles. It's a horrible, twisted smile, like cut glass slicing into a wound, and Starsky's heart rips inside. He cries that day, weeps for those amber smiles because Hutch won't cry himself.

There's few smiles after that, and then only those twisted ones formed of amber lies on lonely evenings. He can see Hutch slipping away and he doesn't know how to pull him back. He wonders if he's doing any good for his friend anymore..and how long it will be before Hutch destroys himself and he can do nothing but try to pick up the pieces.

The second time he sees that smile they're walking to the car and he's reaching for his keys when the smile turns to frozen horror, the first real emotion he's seen in Hutch for longer than he can remember. Faintly he hears Hutch yell for him to get down as the world explodes into pain and shattered glass raining down on him. And then he's lying slumped against the car wheel, gasping for breath, blood running down him in a grisly fountain and all he can think is how much he misses those old smiles.

The next time he thinks of those broken smiles he's wandering somewhere within darkness without remembering how he found himself here. And then he remembers the last time he saw Hutch's smile and he fights his way to the surface, to the light, and the voice somewhere far above.

The last time he sees Hutch smile there's no glass in his hand, no shattered dreams edging his eyes. It's the day Starsky gets behind the wheel of his car for the first time since the shooting, the day they're back on the streets. He guns the engine and sends the Torino careening around a corner, throwing Hutch sideways against him. He expects Hutch to yell like he always does but instead his head lifts and a smile creeps across his face. It's smaller than Starsky remembers, and it doesn't quite catch every corner of his eyes. But it's genuine, and he can't help but grin back. He could live a lifetime on those smiles.


	17. Rose Colored Glasses

**_Rose Colored Glasses_**

_"Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons." - Ruth Ann Schabacker_

At night he sometimes dreams about that day until waking and sleeping have become one, fragments of the past tangled up with the present. Life didn't just change. Life as they knew it simply ceased to exist that day.

Before The Shooting, as they now call it, there was a rush of adrenaline to their daily lives, a feeling of immortality intertwined with their jobs. Death was a tiny whisper in the back of their minds, something they'd seen a glimpse of in a mirror years ago and had forgotten to fear.

Now it's a memory, a shade they touched in the night and slipped away from as the morning came. Life has become precious, fleeting, and fragile.

It's Starsky's first birthday since the shooting, the day the doctors had doubted he'd live to see, let alone be home from the hospital on. Even Hutch for that brief space of time had lost their ever buoyant faith, their optimistic hope that me and thee against the world could take on anything and win.

He's washed Starsky's car, scrubbing the windows, the ones he put in a month after the shooting, with the tenderest of care.

It isn't just a car anymore. It's something more, a memory between them, a tangible reminder like the scars that cross his chest.

Without those shattered windows absorbing some of the bullets impact he'd have been killed instantly. The car had slightly detoured the bullets, turning them just enough to escape his heart. They owe those windows his life.

Without Starsky's knowledge he's borrowed the car and taken it in for a new paint coat and reupholstering to remove the last of the blood stains and splinters of glass driven into the leather. He's fixed it up until it shines like a brand new car.

It's an uncommon gift for an uncommon birthday but he knows Starsky will understand the meaning behind it all.

"Hutch?"

He turns to see Starsky standing there, leaning on his cane, the old boyish smile softening the lines of pain that still bracket his mouth.

He extends a hand to him as he nods toward the car.

"What do you think, Starsk?"

There's a moment of hesitation as if he's choosing the right words, the ones that will reach deeper and plant their roots into the soil of a friendship forged through drought and fire. And then his head tilts and he grins, a full smile of wild abandonment.

"Its beautiful, Hutch. Just beautiful."


	18. Clear

**_Clear_**

_"If he is a ghost, then it's very disappointing for me, because he is banished in the story, and that could mean that he won't be coming back, and that would be terrible, wouldn't it?" - Paul Darrow_

I'd been a ghost for six hours before I knew it.

I know, it sounds strange, but it isn't like the old movies where the guy is suddenly transparent, can walk through walls, rattle chains, and howl in misty castles. I was a little on the pale side but I didn't notice, and I couldn't walk through anything, or move anything. Instead my hands slipped off everything and everyone without even feeling them. And as for howling...well, they couldn't even hear me speak, let alone any moaning and groaning.

I should go back, though, and explain how I got to be like this, at least the best I remember, that is. I'm a little fuzzy on the actual - you can say it - death that came first. Forget that. It's depressing anyway, and why does it matter how I got killed? The important part is what happened next.

The last thing I truly remember is getting the call. A robbery, I think. One minute I was running up the stairs and the next I was back in the car, sitting next to Hutch. Only he looked strange, white as a sheet, mouth set in a tight line, red stains streaked across his shirt and pants. He sat rigid, eyes fixed on the street ahead as if he was Superman looking through a wall with X-Ray vision. His hands were clenched around the steering wheel so tightly I could see every tendon and vein standing out against the fair skin.

He was driving my car.

Now don't get me wrong. I love Hutch more than my brother but I draw the line at the car. No one drives it except me.

"Why are you driving?"

No answer. I must have said something that bugged him.

"Hutch?"

He didn't even twitch an eyebrow in my direction.

That's when it started to really scare me. Hutch may give me the silent treatment now and then but he never flat out ignores me. Usually he's glancing out of the corners of his eyes while I'm pretending I don't notice. I reach out to touch his arm and my fingers slip right off it.

"Hutch?" My voice is tiny, barely audible to my own ears. He doesn't even look at me. "Hutch! Hutch!"

And that's when I finally realize the truth. He isn't answering because he can't hear me. He looks odd because I'm not here. Because I'm...dead.

oooOOOooo

We - he - drove straight to the hospital and I trailed behind him, listening as he spoke his name in a quiet, hollow voice that sounded so strange, and watching as he headed for the room to claim...me. Or rather, my body.

I got a good look at myself and wished I hadn't. My good looks have been ruined, all smashed up like the side of my head. I look like wax, pale and stiff. Like the corpse I am.

He takes my hand in his, curls his long fingers around it and stands there. I guess I've been dead a few hours because the hand is stiff. I don't know how he can bear to touch it. There's always been something about stiff flesh that's made me uneasy. I've seen a lot of death but it still crawls under my skin like an itch.

He stands that way a long time, shoulders slumped forward, hand tightly gripped in his. I wish I could pull him away from my dead body, get him out of here. It isn't good for him and I can see it in that vacant stare.

"Hutch, please." My voice is hollow and silent in the room.

All day I haven't given much thought to why or how I'm a ghost. I don't know whether I'll stay this way or just disappear or...I might leave Hutch behind, alone, without me. I might be without him.

His shoulders tremble with the effort of holding in the silent mourning and my own chest starts to hurt, a rough-edged ache that seeps into my...I'm not sure what I have now.

I can't stand it anymore. I go over to him, wrap my translucent arms around his heaving shoulders. He feels bony - can people lose weight in only a few hours? - and fragile, like when I found him underneath the car. I'll never forget the sight of his eyes, half-opened slits framed by raw, sun-baked skin, latching onto my face like a tow rope.

He sobs harder now, a choked sound escaping now and then. His head sinks into the hollow of my neck, hair tickling my chin if I could feel it. He lets go of the dead hand and wraps his arms around himself, my flickering ghost-self clenched within them.

He can't feel me and I can't really feel him but it doesn't matter. We hold onto each other, across life, across death...and across something inbetween.

oooOOOooo

I followed him home, climbing in the back of the car ahead of him and sitting in silence beside him. His posture was still rigid but some of whatever had held him upright in the trip to the hospital had collapsed. He looks weak and pale.

He weaves in and out of traffic like a crazy man and a yell escapes me once as he narrowly avoids a car. He slows down a little but not enough.

"Be careful, Hutch." I lean forward and brush his hand, tightly corded around the steering wheel. "You hear me?" He doesn't, of course, but it doesn't stop me from trying.

Out of the corner of my eyes I see a car cut across the line, heading straight for us.

"Hutch, look out!"

I grab at the steering wheel but my hands slip off and I tumble hard against the back window.

There's a screech of metal and glass and my head slams into the back of his seat. The horn blares as his body strikes it and through my blurred vision I see the car spin outward before coming to a harsh and jarring stop.

"My car..." It comes out as a moan. I touch the twisted metal, run my hand through the shattered glass with sorrow like I've lost my best friend as I climb from beneath it. "Hutch?"

I throw myself into the front seat, crawling across more broken glass to reach him. He's wedged in tight against the steering wheel, one leg bent at a strange angle. I can hear his breathing, fast and wheezing, each puff of air dribbling a weak trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Hutch, no." I feel his chest gently, flinching myself when I find the swelling patch on his side. Broken ribs, maybe worse. "Hold on, Hutch. You're gonna be fine, you hear me?" My voice sounds strained.

His eyes open the barest fraction of an inch and I swear he looks straight at me. I wrap my arms around him, hold him upright as he slumps. I stay that way until the ambulance comes.

oooOOOooo

I've never tried making a bargain with God before. I've whispered frantic prayers through clenched teeth, mostly the Hebrew verses from the back of my memory, interlaced with "please, let him live and I'll do anything". This is different. I'm dead after all and incapable of doing anything at all except exist.

So that's what I offer. My existance in this state. I bargain for a life for another kind of life. Let him live and I don't stay like this. I can just fade away. If him living means I have to disappear and never see him again, not even the vacant touch and empty embrance of before, then I can do it.

He's lying on the operating table, face pasty and blue-tinged beneath an oxygen mask as the doctors work on his chest. I don't have to get closer to know it's bad.

I sense the blip of the heart monitor before I hear the lurching pattern of a cardiac arrest. The surgeon yells "Defib!" and my own heart - if I still had it - jerks harshly against my ribs.

Hutch's eyes open.

He steps into my world, and out of his. I see his body still lying back there on the table, doctors and nurses working on him as a machine screams out the warning of a stuttering heart.

He scans the world with a quiet lack of interest, and finally turns to see me. I give a weak smile.

"Hi, Hutch."

He stares at me as if he's seeing a ghost - excuse the bad joke - eyes wide, face chalk white. The sound that comes from his throat is a cross between a whimper and a sob.

I start to reach for him and remember his smashed up chest. Even as a ghost I might hurt him worse. I offer my hand instead.

He grabs onto my hand like a lifeline, digs his fingers into me with a grip that I know would be painful if I could feel anything. There's an odd sensation and suddenly a twitch of pain in the hand he's clamped in a vice. And I know what he's doing.

He's trying to give me his life, as if it will bring me back. He can't accept I'm dead. But he's too weak and I know it's killing him. And Hutch can't die. The world needs people like him. Sometimes I think he cares too much and I can see it eating him up inside, bruising and beating until there's nothing left to give, and he still finds more to hand out. He's special like that, and as selfish as I feel I'd like him with me. But he belongs here. So I pull my hand out of his.

"Starsk." It's only a whisper, thready with agony and desperation.

"No, Hutch." I know I'm silent to him but I talk anyway. Call it habit, or a final attempt to get through. "You gotta live. There's a whole world out there. There's so much you can give it."

His head shakes, almost imperceptibly. "Starsk." And I realize he can hear me.

"Its okay, Hutch." I feel something wet trickle down my cheeks and swat at it. Pesky dust, even in the afterlife.

Another shake, harder this time.

"One life." I force my voice to harden. "I bargained. You use it, Hutch. Now, before it's too late."

Somewhere in the distance, clear now since I'm officially a ghost, I see the doctors working on his body, arching up under the defibrillator.

"Go, Hutch! Now!"

He wraps his hand around my wrist, digging in with all the strength and willpower of a child having a tug of war with a dirty security blanket and the mother with the washing machine. I rip his fingers free, each tug a bolt of imaginary pain through where my heart used to be.

He looks at me only once, that look that can rip a heart out, all blue-eyed raw agony, begging. And I do the hardest thing I've ever done, the hardest thing I know I'll ever do over the thousands of years I've got ahead of me. I slam both hands into his shoulders and push him backwards, back toward his body and the operating room, to life. But in the instant before he falls his hand comes down around mine again, even stronger this time. I lose my balance, arms pinwheeling, tangled with him. We fall, through death, through life, I don't know. And in the instant before we slam into something I see him smile.

oooOOOooo

If there's one thing I know it's that the afterlife isn't supposed to hurt. My head is pounding like the mother of all hangovers, and my chest feels like the Torino ran over it. I remember then that it couldn't have because it's smashed up a couple miles from Venice Place, and for some reason that strikes me as absurdly funny. I laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze.

"Starsky?"

I cough and the pain in my chest builds into liquid agony.

"Starsky?" The voice is louder this time and I let my eyes drift open to find out where I've landed. A hospital from the looks of it. And Captain Dobey looking worried, standing over my bed.

Captain Dobey?

I struggle to sit up, managing to crash inelegantly back against the pillows.

"Hutch?"

My eyes search the room frantically before latching onto the bed next to him and the lanky, blond form folded into it. He's paler than usual, hair sticking up all over his head like a kid who poked a finger into an electric socket. But I can see his chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. He's alive.

And Captain Dobey can hear me.

I stare down at me, twitch my fingers over the skimpy hospital gown they have me in. I can feel it, every fold of the fabric. I can feel my fingers, skin rubbing together, feel the sheets covering me. I can feel...I'm breathing, like Hutch, heart beating, blood pumping. I'm...alive.

"What happened?"

"A car accident." Captain Dobey sounds oddly grave. "You're both gonna be fine. Your car..well, it.." He looks nervous. "It didn't make it."

"A life." My voice is small, almost hopeful. And then I laugh until it hurts. Because it feels good to be able to hurt.

oooOOOooo

It took me a while to piece together what happened. A car accident, yes. Hutch had internal injuries, a broken leg. I was dead for about two minutes.

Or so they say. It seems crazy but I keep thinking that it wasn't a dream at all. It was real. For two days I was a ghost, and I was never in that car with Hutch, at least not in body.

How I got to be there, or alive again at all, I don't really know that. All I know is that Hutch, like me, is stubborn. He doesn't let go of me, even in death. I like that about him.


End file.
